The Maiden and the Man
by Tsuta-chan
Summary: Summary: He watches her braid flowers into a crown, laughing brightly, and realizes all at once that he loves her with every fiber of his being. Slight AU


**Summary: He watches her braid flowers into a crown, laughing brightly, and realizes all at once that he loves her with every fiber of his being. Slight AU**

They are ten years old, and she makes flowers bloom in the heart of winter, singing softly as she coaxes them from the earth and admires their beauty. He watches, entranced more thoroughly than any spell can manage, as she laughs and picks one, tucking it behind his ear with a smile that lights up his world and leaves him helpless to do anything but smile back. Her eyes, a bright shade of emerald, pure and flawless, shine vibrantly with her laughter.

"Your turn, Sev!"

He smiles helplessly, turning to the barren earth. Focusing intensely, he grabs at that cool, coiling energy, directing it into the earth, forcing as much as he can, but…

"I… think this leaf is a little greener than it was before?" Lily offers, smiling as she points out a particular leaf laying near his hands.

He snorts, disbelieving, and she leans against him, her warmth suffusing through him at her touch. "Okay, fine, it isn't greener at all. I don't know why you have so much trouble with this though, when you're so much better than me at everything else!" she chides in good humor, and he smiles back at her, lips stretching almost too easily in her presence.

"Perhaps you just have a talent for herbology, Lil."

"Hm… I guess… come on though, try again, maybe if I pay more attention I can give you tips!"

He heaves a longsuffering sigh, but can't help the grin he gives her as he bends back over the earth, grabbing at the coiling coolness in his core.

* * *

They're thirteen, and she laughs as she dances through the snow, barefoot and free, completely immune to the cold. Where she steps, tentative green shoots attempt to pierce the white blankets that suffuse the world, and all he can do is watch in wonder. She runs up to him, clutching at his arms and dragging him from the castle steps.

"Come on Sev, have some fun! You've been holed up in those dungeons so much, I nearly forgot what you looked like!" she grins as she leads him into the snow, all but dancing in the empty, white world. Her vibrant red hair contrasts, like fire and warmth, against the world, and her eyes sparkle from beneath her bangs.

Looking into them, he can't help but smile back, though it comes stiffly for a moment, until his face remembers how. Like the finest emeralds, her eyes sparkle with her mirth as she drags him deeper into the snow, and from her footsteps, the tentative green shoots become delicate flowers as they dance together amid the freshly falling snow.

* * *

They are fifteen, and the door between them feels like an insurmountable obstacle. _Mudblood_ lingers on his tongue, a filthy taste like regret and pain and pressure and rules that can't be broken, and an apology he doesn't know how to give.

Even so, he knocks on the door to the common room, and perhaps by chance, she is the one who comes out, clearly surprised at his presence as she looks down from the entrance. Grimacing, he looks down at the ground, before shaking himself and meeting her eyes.

"I… I'm sorry, Lily. I… I shouldn't have said that, I didn't _mean _to say that, it just slipped out and I'm so sorry, please, I-"

"Severus."

He stops, flinching back at the look in her eyes, bright and pure and lit with a fire beyond just her hair's vibrant shade.

"I'm sorry too. Sorry that it's come to this, but… it can't go on anymore."

"Wha-?"

"It isn't just me, Sev. I… I've seen how you treat the other muggle-borns. How many of _them_ have you apologized to? I'm sorry, but… I can't be friends with you if you're only making an _exception_ for me, only treating _me_ like I deserve to be human. If… if you can't apologize to all the others too, then… we're done. And I don't want to speak with you again."

"Wait, Lily, please you don't understand-"

"I understand perfectly, Severus! You've been changing ever since we started school, but for a while I thought you were strong enough, that you weren't giving into that pressure from your dorm-mates! But you're becoming just like them, and I refuse to be put on a pedestal while you treat my friends like second-class citizens! We- We're through, Sev, I'm sorry."

She turns around, going back into the common room and slamming the door behind her, leaving him standing in that empty hallway, something warm and wet sliding down his face.

He thinks, for a moment, of what would happen if he did apologize to all the mud-muggleborns in the school… the smile that pulls at his lips hurts like he's straining something, and turns out far closer to a bitter grimace.

Turning on his heel, he walks away.

* * *

They are seventeen, and he watches from afar as she braids a crown of flowers, laughing gaily with her friends as they take turns telling stories. Her hair is pulled atop her head, a crown of fire bringing out her freckles and vibrant eyes, sparkling with joy. Their pure shade shines in the light, and as he watches her fingers deftly twining about the stems, wide grin across her face and laughter he can't hear writ into every line, he realizes with heart-stopping pain that he is in love with her, this magnificent creature of fire and freedom.

He smiles, as he watches her from the tower window, and if that smile looks more like a smirk, at least it rests easily on his face.

* * *

They are eighteen, and he turns the corner into that empty hallway with the secret passage to the room that was _theirs_, all those years ago, and school is coming to an end, and he wants to see it one last time, relive all the memories that belong to no one else but _her_, when he sees them.

Her fire-red hair frames _his_ tanned face, as she leans _him_ over a desk and kisses _him_ violently, desperately, moaning and laughing in equal measure against _his_ mouth, and a numbness overtakes him, so deep and so complete that he turns around without a sound and leaves without them ever knowing of his presence.

His lips twist into a silent snarl as he strides away from that secret (precious, sacred, untainted, _violated_) place, and it takes everything he has not to verbalize his building fury with curses and incantations.

* * *

They are eighteen, and it is the last day of school, and he is on track to be the greatest potions master alive, but even then as he looks at the vial in his hands, he hesitates. If he got it wrong…

No. There's no time for doubts, when the last train leaves in barely an hour, and he'll need every second he can get for the potion to settle.

Striding with determination, he heads for the great hall, carefully keeping the goblet of pumpkin juice from spilling as he mixes the potion into it.

He hesitates again in the doorway, this time to watch the Gryffindor table, seeking her out, and by some fortune her fingers wrap around her own goblet of pumpkin juice _–thank Merlin, he was right, she had pumpkin juice today- _so he quickly pulls out his wand, pointing it at his own goblet, and performing a complicated spell of his own invention, switching the liquid from his goblet and hers – just in time, as she raises hers to her lips and takes a long swallow.

He breathes a sigh of relief, vanishing his goblet and striding to the Slytherin table without pause. She's too far away to glimpse her eyes, but he is certain of his work (can't be that dangerous, the theory was perfect, he knows what he's doing) and smiles with pleasure. If it sits tight and painful on his face, no one but him will ever know.

* * *

They are twenty-one, and she smiles at him. _Him_, not James Potter or Sirius Black or anyone else, just him, only him. He smiles back, tight and shallow but _happy_, because it worked and she is no different than before, she doesn't hold the obsessive infatuation of Amorentia, or the shallow attraction of any other love potion, his invention _worked_ and didn't change her at _all_.

"Are we going to the garden now?" she asks, voice high and bright, and he nods, doing his best to smile as he leads her through the mansion and out the back. Those they pass know better than to remark at her, because if her wand doesn't bite them, his certainly will, and even his Master has never tried to mock her. Their walk to the garden is undisturbed, and she runs out the moment they clear the doors, shoes making deep prints in the snow. She runs her fingers over every plant they find, and yet…

The further they walk, the dimmer her eyes grow, until he finds himself too filled with worry not to ask.

"Lily? Is something wrong?"

"Sev… they aren't… they aren't growing. Is… something wrong with my magic?"

He stops, horrified for a second (nonono the potion shouldn't have any effects like that!) before a cultured voice slips into the conversation, saving him, saving them both.

"Ah, no, I'm afraid that's the wards. You see, due to how delicate these gardens are, and all the magic that gets thrown around the manor these days, I've had my house-elf set up wards that prevent any unsanctioned magic from affecting my garden. Even the Dark Lord himself would at least struggle to modify them in any way, Ms. Evans." Lucius Malfoy smiles charmingly, and Lily echoes him weakly, nodding.

"Ah, I… understand. Thank you for letting me know." She offers, strictly polite, and turns back to him. "We can go back in now, Sev."

Her eyes are shadowed, and his weak and struggling smile dies on his lips as he nods and escorts her back inside. The flowers must mean a lot to her _–of course they do, it's how they met and surely it means as much to her as it does to him-_ so he'll have to see if he can work with Lucius to make an exception for her in the wards.

* * *

They are twenty-three, and she _screams_. He winces, nearly flinching away from her, but no, he's the only person he trusts with enough medical training to take care of her in this state, take care of _them_, and so he steels himself, casting the charms and feeding her the potions, and doing his best not to take anything she says to heart (it's just the pain, after all, she doesn't mean it it's only the pain, it's normal for birthing women to curse their husbands after all) as he works to help her deliver their son.

She is too weak even to smile, when the little boy comes out, but Severus does his best to smile enough for both of them as he cradles the boy in his arms, even if it feels like his lips are ripping open from the strain, and when she makes noise signifying her return to the land of the living, he turns that (fractured, broken, weak) smile towards her and hands her the babe.

"Look, Lily… it's our son. Our little boy."

She looks down at the babe, and her eyes are dark and heavy, clearly from the pain of the difficult birth (it was ever so hard to find pain relieving potions suitable for both birth _and_ his own concoction within her), those emerald eyes almost black and her red hair more akin to a wilting rose than aweing flame, but her lips twist up into an exhausted, broken smile as she looks down at the child.

"My son…" her voice is weak and hoarse from screaming, but he sits beside her, ignoring her flinch (likely still sensitive, after all…) and wraps an arm around her.

"We should think of a name, Lil."

"Mm." her arms go lax, as she leans against him, and he smiles again, tight and tense, at how clearly exhausted she is. He lays her back in the bed, and settles the babe beside her. Then he gets up, determined to gather everything she might need, so that she doesn't have to wait uncomfortably later.

* * *

They are twenty-four, barely five months since the babe was born, their little Harry (and she can't have known its significance, there was no way Potter would have explained it to her, it's just chance, or her muggle upbringing wanting her to favor the royal family, that's all), and he returns to their rooms to a strange, stilted silence.

The room is empty.

He looks again, just to be sure, but there is no Lily, no young Harry, just an empty room and signs of… packing? Confused, with worry growing steadily in his gut, he strides to his personal room, straight to his potions cabinet, and pulls out a vial of blood (he never took hers, never Lily's, but the babe never noticed, and it's better that way anyway, tracking spells work best on blood family after all), and quickly cast with his wand, following the trail of red mist without hesitation.

He finds Lily, along the path, the mist extending into the distance and no child to be seen. She lays in the snow, barefoot, eyes closed.

"Lily? Lily, are you alright, what are you doing dressed like that in this weather?" He asks hurriedly, as he kneels beside her, attempting a comforting smile, and prepares to cast warming spells. Her hand grasps his before he can, and her eyes slide open to meet his.

"No, Severus."

He freezes, caught in that gaze, at his name spoken in _that_ way, the way she said it ten years ago almost, and his breath comes out a shudder but it's _fine_, it has to be, his potion could hardly fail _now_-

Her eyes may be emerald, but they're tainted, cloudy, impure and lacking their luster. Her condition is clearly bad, she needs medical attention _now_ and Harry is still missing so he jerks his arm from her grasp and casts a diagnostic spell to know what he's working with and-

"L-Lily?"

Her name stutters from between his lips, as he stares, horrified, at the results of his spell.

"I… won't be your pet anymore, Severus. Harry is gone, long gone, you won't get him back he'll be free like I never was-"

"You were free! I never imprisoned you, you wanted-"

"No. I didn't. I… I wanted to be _free_, Severus. And if this is the only way, then… so be it." She chokes, blood speckling her lip, but her smile is bright and something in her eyes sparkles faintly, before she begins to seize.

"NO!" his spells sling out rapid-fire, but by the time he realizes she charmed her clothes to dampen his healing spells, it's too late, and…

* * *

He is twenty-six, and there is no 'they' anymore. His Master is dead, and he has been sold out by Karkarov, a wanted man now. He looks down at the vial in his hands, and the expression on his face is the furthest thing from a smile.

"I love you…" he whispers, to the wind, to the earth, to the unmarked vial between his fingers. In front of him, a gravestone with no name, and all the pictures he has of her – she destroyed hers when they- when she made that mistake, but he had two still, the first taken by her parents when he visited, both of them still ten years old, one taken by her roommate as they came in from playing in the snow that winter just before the… fight.

A third lies next to them, of them on their wedding day, when she was the most radiant she'd ever been, but…

Looking at those pictures side-by-side, some insidious realization crawls into his mind.

In that first picture, even though her eyes are squinted nearly shut from the flash on the camera, they _sparkle_, her whole face shining with the joy she feels. And in the second, her eyes are wide open, pure and shining as she takes in everything around her with a wonder that never fades, no matter how many times she sees the castle in all its glory, and that picture of them captures her expression perfectly, as she laughs and takes in the world with wonder-filled eyes.

And yet, their wedding, truly the happiest day for them both…

Her eyes are shadowed, and her smile doesn't reach, doesn't return that pure, bright look he so fell in love with, even as she moves and kisses him in the frame and…

Why…

Why doesn't…

It was the happiest day of their lives, so why does she look like a doll, going through the motions with an empty smil-

How did he not-

Surely it was just a bad angle, the camera work was shoddy-

Why can't he remember ever seeing her bright, purely happy eyes since she came to her senses and _chose_ him (but she didn't did she, you didn't let her, couldn't take the chance, couldn't swallow your pride and stand up for yourself against your house)—

Why isn't she happy…?

His hand trembles around the vial, and he scrambles, yanks off the cork, tries to drink with shaking hands because soon she can _tell_ him, just explain that it was all a misunderstanding, because she _chose_ him, she did, there's just something wrong with his memory—

A spell lances out, snagging the vial and ripping it away from him, and he turns around, already drawing his wand—

Another spell tears it from his hands, in another direction, and he takes in his surroundings to find himself flanked by Potter and Black, Potter's hand clenching around the vial with his face twitching in something close to rage while Black twirls his wand, smirking with something dark lingering behind his eyes.

He raises his chin, looking down at the two _bullies_ because that's all they ever were, and waits for the spells to fly.

Black's wand twitches, but Potter glances at him and he subsides. Potter raises his head and looks down his nose, schooling his features into a blank mask.

"Severus Snape, you are under arrest for performing services in the name of a Dark Lord, twelve confirmed cases of first-degree murder, two confirmed cases of torture, and one case of kidnapping. Come quietly, or we will use force."

What…

He stares, nearly uncomprehending, as it slowly dawns on him.

Potter isn't going to kill him.

Potter isn't going to let Black kill him. They're… taking him to Azkaban? Something furious rages within him, and he lashes out with wandless magic as best he can, weak and ineffectual as it is in his attempts to flee, to get to a place where he can _leave this world_ and _ask her why she didn't look happy_ and they're trying to _take that away from him_ like they take everything, and something suspiciously like denial screams in the back of his mind except it can't be denial because obviously it's true there's nothing to deny—

* * *

He's twenty-six.

Twenty-seven.

Twenty-eight.

Potter comes every year, with stories of _his_ son, telling him all about how his baby boy is growing, how he has Lily's eyes and Snape's skill with potions and—

He's thirty-two, when he finally admits the truth, if only to himself.

Lily never chose him.

And… his potion never really worked.

Oh, it was far more powerful than even Amortentia, but… she lost something of herself, after he made her drink it.

Something she never got back, until that day in the snow with blood on her lips and rejection on her tongue and—

* * *

He's thirty-two, and he _breaks_, giving up what's left of his sanity to the dementors.

Without his denial to protect him, he cannot even attempt to bear the endless reminders of her hollow, empty self.

Especially not when he finds himself forgetting what she ever looked like when alive with joy.

_For those who take but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

**A/N: The idea for this actually came from listening to Erutan's The Willow Maid. The cover image is actually edited from screenshots of the artwork in that video. It's a beautiful, haunting song about a fairy and a huntsman. The fairy is described as having 'hair of fire, and eyes an emerald sheen' and one time I just thought, you know, Lily Potter meets that description! And then I was like, but who would be the huntsman then? And Snape was really the only candidate.**

**I actually like Snape as a character, he's fascinating, and most certainly **_**not**_** a good guy, though also not an evil one. He's… human, neither perfectly good or perfectly evil, and that's what makes him so fun to write. You can really go either way with him – write him with a proper redemption arc, and if it's done right it's even believable. Make him fall, and you can still do the same.**

**So, I hope anyone who finds their way to reading this enjoys it, even if it is a little dark and tragedy-ish. Thanks for checking it out!**


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